


Into the Fold(s)

by BiastulaAtornal



Series: OC Kinkstuff Omnibus [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Chewing Cud, Digestion, Emetophilia, F/M, Gore, Hard vore, Licking, Macro/Micro, Oral Vore, Rumination, Scat mention, Size Difference, Soft Vore, Vomiting, Vore, chewing, piss mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-23 06:02:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23840194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiastulaAtornal/pseuds/BiastulaAtornal
Summary: impulse actions tend not to lie in favour of the ‘weak’--familiar enough to a ghost bat who’d fly into a storm if a few bugs were caught in the wind. And her capture at the cloven claws of a part-sheep, part-wolf owes just as much to her recklessness as to his prowess as a partial predator. Plus points to whatever joker of a deity that cooked him up.however, as otherworldly as he seems, a meshing of what shouldn’t mesh…he’s still a hunter, in the flesh. He follows the rules of nature just like she should...yeah, he still wants to eat her.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Series: OC Kinkstuff Omnibus [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602862
Kudos: 6





	Into the Fold(s)

Bodies gave off a message. In and of themselves.

Many a time did the unassuming species go underestimated, taken for what a first glance blazons them to be. When they were pushed enough, they  _ erupted _ \--there being less room to stew in ennui, then enmity, before finally losing hold of one’s growing energy? The tiniest, weakest looking excuses for organisms may at times be the ones slinking away from puncture wounds in a giant’s neck.

But so often were these the exceptions. An animal yawning in calm, flashing the sharpest of fangs, is saying plenty without words. The presence and senses told all that they needed to, especially to someone far smaller and less capable, and extra-especially to one within reach. Underfoot. At whatever mercy they may have heard of, and promptly scorned as a concept.

Life’s malleable rules, scrawled in blood and sweat and tears: stagnantly satisfying enough to those who obeyed them, and a fun game for those who took to a little carving themselves. Even more so for a beast who wanted the best of both worlds.

In that case, maybe she should have thrown herself down his throat earlier.

The woolly wolf’s jaws were close, ruffling every unpinned hair on her body with warm, sickly,  _ eager _ breaths. Enormous nostrils drunk in her smell, as invested as those eerie eyes of his, which from what she could make out had her fixed with a look, an analytical look. A look of intent.

A look which, weirdly-pupilled enough, still carried the same unmistakable weight that rested alongside the physical one holding her pinned.

Her renewed squirming seemed to bring a new light to those eyes, and the horned head lowered even closer...enough to let those jaws sigh open, and a tongue to roll free, warm and slick, over her shuddering body.

Being stuck here felt torturous. Caked in dirt and sweat and over-arching fear-scent...none of which seemed to dissuade his tongue. Bubbling like whitewater, the wolf’s froth coated her fur, sticky and suffocating even between the wet weight of his licks. Soft grunts rose from his throat. 

His tail must have been wagging.

Sylvanna couldn’t hold onto a single plan of action. The ghost bat lay there, near-delirious already, her chest lurching under the force of his body and her own strangled breaths. His drool sank over her in a shining, stinking veil; the very air felt damp around her, leaving her wheezing in discomfort.

The weight over her head and part of her shoulders would have been welcome enough to just press down further. The hoof-like section, storm-and-stone-weathered, rested over her remaining wing and shrouded her in teasing, out-there smells, enough to keep her weakly chirping between breath-leeching strokes of his tongue. The same segment that wouldn’t bear a little way down, grind her spindly bones into powder and splatter her across the ground like a gnat. Just a brown-furred overseer, both too near and too distant to damn. He knew this, evidently. And so did she.

Enough to know when to move on. One indifferent little huff, softly ruffling her disheveled, glistening fur, didn’t seem any more damning than the previous dirge of sighs overhead the last few minutes. Just another reminder of what lay ahead.

So when the enormous head cocked, pulling away ever so slightly, all her own floppy ears did was loll. The cloven claw-grip eased off--followed soon after by a torrent of drool, falling straight from the maw that closed around her. A slavering cage of huge, gleaming canines hemmed her in. His tongue couldn’t stay away, not for one moment--twisting and sliding over what his teeth didn’t hold. Only now did she register the force of his fore-hoof...paw...foot, now directed right on top of the brittle bones of her wing, and she hissed.

Sickly crunches left the limb as she was pulled high by that tongue, almost dislocating the joints completely before he decided to ease up. However, he didn’t leave her long to recuperate, as the damning frames of his teeth loomed around her hazy vision. His musty breath enveloped her, stifling as the damp, heavy mess of moisture settling down into her pelt. As the great, dripping gates drew shut, a sigh left her own lips. She sagged against the curves of his tongue. Spent.

She learned quickly enough that, with no real evidence to the contrary, he was far from done teasing every terrified wriggle and whimper from her already exhausted self, with his merciless tongue rolling her hither and thither, all around his mouth, up among shining fangs. Over and over she found herself forced against the off-white curves of enamel, left shivering under that searching, hungry, ever-moistening muscle that ground out every hint of her meaty taste.

His tongue danced around her in delight, a rough, bumpy worm she couldn’t successfully wrestle. Milked for her flavour, she felt as if she were being peeled open. Not too far-fetched of a prospect, considering what lay ahead of her past that shuddering sphincter.

Bats of her kind were destined for the deepest and darkest of depths, were they not?

Soon to be proven by the ride coming to a halt. In the loosest degree of the sense, given the currents of bodily air winding back and forth across her pebbled seat--a tongue that, deft enough earlier, lay like the heaviest stone around and over her body as she tried to worm her way away. To just get free. To, at the very least, BREATHE--

Which was precisely when she was mounted high, drawn rather intimately against the cruel ridges of his palate, and shuttled swift as can be down the steaming hot knot of muscle that had been calling to her so desperately.

She felt his head tilt back, in practiced calm. She saw him in her mind’s eye, pieced together from the glimpses her frenzied vision had gleaned for her...a canid monster of oldest nightmare, his curly-crested cranium craned high as his throat carried her low. So badly did she want to cast the terrifying image aside--but every second forced the vile reality back into her mind with the power of wet walls against her body. 

Their weight was such that she likely had left barely a bulge in his throat. Ferried on through the velvety confines of his gullet, her ears rang with the sticky, gurgling accompaniment: his lazily lathered lubricant, her fearful excreta, all massaged bubbling and warm into her fur by those ceaseless clenches. They squeezed her on down, down and down, her form so soaked with saliva that she likely couldn’t move a muscle even if she wanted to.

And, finally...

Through another tight ring, ground down with muscle-warping, bone-bending power...and pushed out into ever-ranker, darker, grooved confines, ushered into folds that contentedly drew her in. The sodden lump of fur that was Sylvanna came to a ‘halt’: slumped in a weave of ridged lining and slime, which rang with * _ grrnggls*  _ and * _ gwuuorps* _ as if in greeting. 

Not three seconds following, she was hit by the smell--a sickly, cloying blend of bitter fumes and acids. Her eyes shut, even as her cheeks and snout started to feel wetter, seared by both the lashes of piping hot, gaseous tongues and those of her own tears. And the scent of clover, and cropped grass, sweet in comparison...and, tellingly enough, becoming less and less discernible from the stench of his stomach, to her suffering senses...

As contractions bullied her body around, working more fluids over her twitching skin, that feeling which had clung to her more tightly than any digestive solution began to wash over with them. A tiny noise escaped her lips, and joined the enzymatic exhalations rising through the room.

Her tail flopped. Her tongue hung. An ever-dying light within her gave a bemused flicker at these goings-on--how gentle this felt, despite the aches and bruises she could clearly feel. These biomechanical conveyors had delivered her dispassionately enough. Clearly no rapport to be found here. A simple enough prospect to grasp, even for her.

Which left her plenty of room to ponder...not so much WHAT would happen next, but HOW she’d end up going down and out. His fluids working their way over and into her, enzymes burrowing through her skin like hornets into their nest, rendering her red, dead, and ready. Or instant sublimation, being ripped right of her own body, unthinking as her very essence was consigned to another. To greater muck and pluck.

However this went down...perhaps enough gut fumes in her head would leave her dumb enough not to notice.

Bleary vision that should have been in search of a weakness in the walls only took in their craftwork, the idle work of their bodily tomb. The shuddering of a great, powerful heart, and the cycle of air through enormous lungs. Those of a mesh of predator and prey...who only carried on the stead of a beast overhead, so assured and yet dispassionate, a ravenous ravager, with the woven, wolven folds all around, so close, so warm and wet, pressing in and down and  _ close. _

She stared through teary eyes at what she could; at the cavorting shadows between the bends of groaning muscle; at the glimmers of liquids coating the ‘ceiling’ and ‘floor’, and the odd * _ sploorsh*  _ of gastric juice, oozing down into the caustic mix. Shivering, panting, heedless of what fresh burbling horror was surging on over her, mordant and morbid and smarting away already. Through the rippling, slippery walls, his satisfaction was palpable, even through the endless gurgling din. No-- _ especially _ from the endless gurgling din.

But the strongest of enzymatic efforts were, to a questionable degree of victory for Sylvanna, barely enough to draw so much as a pained twitch from her. The bat just sat, a crumpled, furry mess. Repulsed as she was at her own resignation, she couldn’t think of how to break through the last-minute milieu. Beyond any chance of considering the implications of this: ideas of blessing, or those base. Only the weight of warm guts bore down on her brain now. She lay there, covered in sticky fluids. Moist and still as a wad of cavern moss.

Too exhausted to even scream.

***

After one more swallow, the sheepdog still let his tongue roam his lips, searching lazily between his teeth and across his gums for every last remnant of the taste of nerve-cooked chiropteran.

With a muted snort, he felt his lips quirk around a bitter surge of gas. The mostly-closed bodily blockade left his own fumes scalding his tongue, searing his gums and teeth--and left those uncomfortable results in the dust with the renewal of bat-flesh coursing across his taste buds, leaving him slobbering all over again. This came with a somewhat enhanced aftertaste, a hint of mint to this meat, which part of him perked up at, and part of him  _ thrilled  _ at.

Yes, damn well exalted. Here he was, a wolven ram with a whining gut, snapping up a measly little  _ bat _ of all the mealy-meat little meals…a predator half his size would likely scorn them. While likely scorning the desperate old bag of bones that snapped them up, from a safe distance, a sensory shroud...but he knew  _ someone _ who would have plenty to say to his face, and he curved his ears with a growl towards first one and then another potential angle at which a certain fellow chimaeric might amusedly approach. Hard going, justifying one solitary flying fuzzball...bloody pestilent little pests. Piratical sky-rats, squeaking in the night. A shrill little wretch of a creature that set off at the slightest sign of sustenance...one he felt unfortunately close to, considering what he’d just done.

No...no. A rat would have put up more of a fight.

Tungsten felt his hackles rising at the jumble of heated thoughts. Irritation washed over him, his innards seeming to tense up in response; when a dash of warm animal-smell rose once more on the wind, similar to what had led him here to start with, he practically pounced, puppylike, on the chance of distracting himself. Doggedly rattling his dags and flaring his fairly damp nostrils, he started to trot down the path as he hunted down the smell that had led his moony gaze this way.

The promise of any kind of fulfilment had likely lent some taste to the bat--as only now did her predator notice how little she’d really given him. His guts tightened around what they could, pressing down on their victim almost questioningly. Accusing him of taking the most meager satisfaction now, instead of chancing bigger prey later, which would indeed keep him alive but also ashamed. A current ran through those whimpering walls, one not purely physical yet still disparaging overall, before a bevy of groans and gurgles drew the lone rambler back to reality.

The wake-up call from inside of him was thankfully unaccompanied by any aches or pains--the yowling yow, not given to much noise at present, merely stopped and gave his belly a nose. Idly, he mulled over what those meager rumbles belied. Under his soft yet tangled fleece, past his even softer undercoat. No-one would know that an interestingly-proportioned bat was packed inside, mushing and churning away so very slowly.

Shifting from foot to foot, he flexed the smaller, innermost claws of his forefeet, one after the other. No other living, breathing fauna had let their odor drift his way--the smell of moments ago having risen away on a rogue wind, perhaps even one from his own desperate, straw-clutching claws--which he couldn’t help but feel relieved over for a few seconds longer. Prey or predator, wet-nosed or brown, they’d only have one pitiful image of a wolf sheepish over a mere snack. He shook himself, as if throwing off the thought.

_ *Grrrllp* _ went his guts, and * _ gwurrk*  _ as they worked, knotting together like kudzu with their roots just as deep, growing noisier and squelchier by the minute. A tumult of spume, tossed between warm waves, with fur and skin flaking off and floating in the bubbling muck...and deeper down, thicker walls shuddering away around thin air, clenching and gurgling, and snarling impatiently to two barely aware sets of ears.

But the larger didn’t give them much attention, as he was inundated with thoughts on a matter more immediate. This Fenrir in fleece was NOT scared in any sense of the word, only tucking tail to a sudden cramp that the bat likely felt way worse. And his mind certainly wasn’t awash with sickly scenarios of blood spilling on  _ her _ end at all; the range of failed failsafes he ran through were unconnected to vengeful chiropteran claws, and were just considerations for the next snack he came across, and that was that.

He should have bitten her limbs off. Broken her spine. As he might just have invited a hurricane into his guts.

While he tensed against claws that didn’t claw, and teeth that didn’t bite: twisting and tossing inside, to fantasies that turned his stomach more than any damage a bat could do. The inner lining quivered and quaked at images of ulcers, lacerations, rogue acids and enzymes...buffeting a sprawled mound of fur and bone that lay in their hold. They only felt a nudge here, a push there, a bump elsewhere. Must’ve exhausted her little limbs. Or her brain. 

Or her hope.

...No. Definitely the fly-sized brain in there.

Soft tongue flesh curved under illusions of grit--not necessarily that far-fetched, given he didn’t know what dark depths had cooked her up, nor how little they owed to cleanliness--and tried not to ponder too much on larger furry hide. That meat-scent had dwindled again, so there was no point dwelling on fantastical foodstuff. A chest rising and falling. An abdomen. No need. Spreading open under his claws like a butterfly’s cocoon. The bounty of slick, lumpy organs spilling out--

He shuddered. His own chest rose, jittery, conscious of the little, brittle wing-fingers brushing blindly between the folds of his stomach. Grasses danced around his heels in the light breeze, just as ticklish. The pebbly earth ground against his clenching pads; stoniness still beat by the beast’s current expression. Closing his eyes, he let out a long, scalding breath through his nose.

And then he waited. Despite the scents now coming again on the wind--for crying out loud--he waited. His ears inclined a little higher, he waited. He waited as the struggling, one time refreshed, began once more to diminish. As thrashes dwindled to twitches, and a weak wing lay even more uselessly over raw bat flesh.

Right before his innards seized her and drew her back up through his gullet, in a slightly painful but delightfully tingly wet rush, and back into his drooling maw where eager fangs waited to dig into her softening, reddening form.

Her squeaks were background noise as he raised his head, feeling the tasty tang of blood join the mix of salt, leather and meat that soaked his tongue. Topped with the bitter, biting tang of his own stomach acids, a ‘mere’ bracing kick to his taste buds. Above all this--which he was unashamed of, in all honesty--were those rising cries of hers that resounded so deliciously through his stained teeth and tongue--unenthused as his expression looked, he almost whined at the fresh taste, theaf that he’d play in the fold.

(Even when sparing a thought for what she’d brought back up with her, and how that dwelt on his lips in more ways than one. That might have been his own blood he was tasting. Whoops.)

Dwelling on fancies of meat before so much as scenting his prey would only end in more heart (and gut)ache. He held onto that thought firmly enough. He mulled her over in piecemeal satisfaction, tongue delving into every tender inch of flesh...drooling over the bat like a snake under sunlight, on the rocks of obligation instead of exaltation.

What a connoisseur he seemed to be. His head like a bed for fallen leaves, and his stomach twinging, empty. Somewhat distracted, as the mutton-made mutt flung sopping-wet bat around his mouth in lieu of ways to approach the next, more gratifying hunt on his roamsome lonesome.

Weren’t there any other bats around here? Particularly confused birds, maybe? Beetles? Hell, he’d eat a snake at this point. Food was food. Some heat-drunk reptile didn’t sound like so much of a beacon of false contentment. The scales would feel good shunting their way down his throat, claw-grindingly good. Or at the very least, they’d be satisfying to chew...

While he only had flimsy patagia and paltry, fuzz-topped flesh to gnaw on right now, practically mulching them up into a poultice to soothe his aching stomach. He was so worked up, his maw so dripping wet, that he was at honest risk of choking. Every breath felt... _ frothy. _ His own stale breath swilled in and out and around his jaws--and he wondered how a smaller pair of lungs currently fared in there. On top of, or rather,  _ underneath _ the fermenting cocktail of spittle. In thick, globular masses, rolling waves of fetid froth, slender gleeks...too much thinking, not enough doing...

Whining under his breath, he forced all that he could out of her. He rolled her around his slavering jaws, ground her between his molars, gently teased at her with his canines. His cheeks bulged out the slightest bit, barely giving to the presses of misshapen wings and limbs. With revitalised vigour he went at her, driving the sides of his teeth in deeper, but not  _ too _ deep--yet--breaking through skin, tenderising muscle, widening bruises, re-opening old wounds. His tongue saturated again with the salt-tinged zing of bat meat.

Which, while tasty enough, didn’t really leave him too full.

So, with his appetite only starting to heighten, Tungsten set back off on the silly, senseless meat trail, hooves clopping, claws clacking, and teeth snicking and snacking. His breaths came wetter by the second, salivary glands working away--tongue as lively as his limbs suddenly felt. His throat already shuddered, and his guts rocked in corollary, anticipating the next little ‘gift’ that’d slide down deep. Returned or otherwise.

At least he had something to ruminate over, for a bit.

**Author's Note:**

> byeee, Sylvanna, bye-bye :) I'm sure you won't get in any disreputable situations :) ever :) again :)


End file.
